


save a hoofbeast

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Community: bucketlist, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fucking Machines, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk laughs, presses his lips to the sweat-drenched nape of your neck, lets his teeth scrape the skin. "Don't worry, babe, I'm not going to leave you hanging. I've got something special for you. Get up."</p>
            </blockquote>





	save a hoofbeast

**Author's Note:**

> anon at bucketlist wanted:  
>  _A fic based around this adorable and nsfw (http://www.tumblr.com/photo/1280/ask100dequius/16051122958/2/tumblr_lxzbvoZyBb1r5vzpg) image from the ask100dequius tumblr._
> 
> _Any kink or pairing thrown in is up to you, but anon really likes large insertions -- because Equius struggling a bit with big dick is super cute, ok -- and exhibitionism._

You can scarcely believe the depths of the depravity to which you've sunk. You've found yourself returning repeatedly to a human, pleading for every indignity he can visit on you; he has the arrogance of a highblood, for all his soft white hands and shocking fire-orange eyes. He drawls commands with cool, confident assurance, and you do whatever you're told. You call him _sir_ and he calls you any of a number of affectionate, demeaning terms that you respond to without hesitation.

When he growls with satisfaction this time and stills inside you, you are still taut and aching, in need of release; you chew your lip, trying fruitlessly to hold back the plea for a few agonizing seconds. Your resolve crumbles when he pulls out, and you beg: "Please, sir, please, don't leave me like this."

Dirk laughs, presses his lips to the sweat-drenched nape of your neck, lets his teeth scrape the skin. "Don't worry, babe, I'm not going to leave you hanging. I've got something special for you. Get up."

You obey, trembling with frustrated need. You can feel his genetic material trickling down your thighs. Even knowing intellectually that filling one's partner is normal among humans, you can't help the queasy thrill you feel every time he does it to you. He knows how depraved it is for trolls, after all, but still he does it, shamelessly making you his pail.

"Come on," he says, hooking his fingers in the ring on your collar. "This way."

The collar is another indignity that you mortify yourself by enjoying, a band of mirror-polished steel lined with soft leather to pad it against your skin; you wear it only when you are here, when you have given yourself up to his control. You _could_ break free of it if you wanted to try, and Dirk knows this, knew this before he presented it to you in the first place. You suspect he also knows that you will never want to try.

You follow him closely, as the collar requires, as he brings you to his workroom. There is something sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, covered with a sheet—has he built some new piece of robotics with pleasure in mind? When Dirk lets go of your collar, you stop, waiting for further directions.

He crosses the room and pulls back the sheet. He's smirking at you as he reveals his handiwork.

You flush hot. His new creation is a rocking device, a shining curve of steel large enough for a troll to sit astride. At one end it is ornamented with the sculpted head of a hoofbeast, and at the other end it is fitted with a monstrous artificial bulge, thick and obscene pink-red, covered in rows of little bumps to increase sensation. You can scarcely breathe at the depravity of it, and you look at Dirk again.

"Well?" he says.

He knows your most shameful needs so well. "Please," you say helplessly. "Order me."

Dirk nods. "Let me see your hands, ponyboy," he says. You hold them out as commanded, and he flips open the top on a bottle of lubricant, squeezing thick gel onto your fingers. "I want you to slick that big thing up," he says, "and then stuff yourself with it. I'm going to watch you take it for a ride." Not an instant of hesitation or doubt; he is certain you will obey him.

"As you wish," you tell him hoarsely.

If he built this machine for you, it must be reinforced to withstand your strength, but still, you are careful with it as you smear lubricant over the length of the attached bulge. He makes you do such atrocious things. You are so lucky to have met him. This prosthetic he has built into the rocking hoofbeast is outrageous in size, considerably bigger than his, thicker at the wide ridge of its crown than your own bulge. You imagine trying to take such a monstrosity inside you; your mouth goes dry and your bulge throbs.

"I—I do not know if I can...accommodate this," you warn him.

"Sure you can," he says. He folds his arms over his chest, watching you with one eyebrow cocked in that infuriating, beautiful attitude of superiority. "Big greedy hunk of musclebeast like you? You can take it."

He will not force you. He never has to. Simply knowing the extent of his demands makes you need to obey them.

You kneel astride the device, and have to close your eyes to force yourself to continue. You reach back for the monstrous bulge, lowering your hips to bring it to your nook. After a moment of struggling with it you realize that simply pushing yourself back on it will make it rock away from you; you use your free hand to brace yourself against the carved hoofbeast head so the device can no longer move freely. You push.

The head of it scarcely breaches your nook before you have to stop, panting for breath. "It's—so much," you tell him.

"Take it slow," Dirk says. "I'm not in a hurry."

"O-of course," you say. You push yourself back on it another fraction, enough to feel the first nubs rub stretched, sensitive skin as they pass into you. You pause again there, catching your breath. Already it feels unmercifully wanton, being stretched so wide, and when you explore with your fingers you can feel how much of the shaft still remains.

Dirk groans appreciatively as you make this discovery, and the reminder of his presence prompts an undignified whimper from you. "You look great," he says. "Impaling yourself on that monster cock. It's even better than I pictured it."

"You have been, ah, imagining this," you say, as you rock your hips to fill yourself a little further.

"Damn right," he says. "The whole time I was building it for you."

Another strangled sound escapes your throat. He built this device specifically for you. He pictured you debasing yourself on it. Your actual depravity exceeds his expectations. You push yourself onto it further. The entrance to your nook feels stretched taut and sensitive, and the prosthetic is rigid and unyielding as it fills you. Your breath is harsh and panting in your ears, but oh, you want to take it all for him now. You want him to see just how much you can give him.

You can hear footsteps; you glance back over your shoulder to see him standing behind you, admiring the obscene picture you make. "So damn gorgeous," he tells you. "All stretched out and flushing blue around that big red cock."

"Y-you chose the color on purpose," you say, hoping it's true.

"Sure did," he says. "Red like my blood, for depravity bonus points."

You groan helplessly, biting your lip, pushing yourself back to take more of the prosthetic. The solidity of it feels _invasive_ in a way that flesh does not, makes it seem far more demanding: your body must give way because the thing that penetrates you will not. Your shame globes feel swollen and heavy, and the tip of your bulge leaks an early drop of fluid.

"Almost there," Dirk tells you. "You love it, don't you? Stuffing yourself that full."

"Yes," you moan. "Yes, sir." It is utterly inexcusable, the pleasure you take in this, the _thrill_ you feel at surrendering to his every perverse suggestion. You drive yourself back until the prosthetic is buried in your nook as far as it will go, your glutes brushing the rocking base of the device. You let your head fall forward, forehead braced on your forearm, while you breathe through the overwhelming feeling of fullness.

Dirk traces his fingertips down your spine, the touch so gentle it makes you shudder. "There's a control panel along the bottom of the curve," he says. "Open it."

Your hands are shaking, but you manage to slip a claw under the smooth panel and expose the controls. "Done."

"You're doing all right?" he asks, and you nod. "Then turn it on."

You flip the power switch, and the prosthetic begins to vibrate inside you. The noise you make is quite frankly disgraceful, but you can't stop yourself. The stimulation is almost unbearable, just barely on the right side of the divide between pleasurable and excruciating. He undoes you so utterly.

"Leave the power switch alone," Dirk says, "but feel free to play with the rest of the controls. I want to see how hard you can wreck yourself here."

"Yes, sir," you breathe. You are already, in his words, _wrecked_ by this experience, and all you want is more. You fumble with the settings, discovering that one button changes the speed of the vibration, another makes it pulse in patterns, and a third makes the entire prosthetic twist and rock back and forth inside you. When you strike the perfect combination, a stroke that rubs up repeatedly against the glandular stimulation point deep in your nook, you practically sob with the pleasure of it. You rock back onto the prosthetic, reduced to shameless need, and every flex of your thighs brings you more of that perfect stimulation. You're slick with sweat all over, trembling, your globes and your bulge aching for release as you—as you _fuck_ yourself relentlessly on the machine he's built for you.

You feel yourself pass the point of no return, and the last rational part of your brain fumbles for the control panel, slamming it shut at the last possible instant before you surrender to the sensations and climax without even a hand on your bulge. You spill in a desperate, overwhelming rush between your thighs, growling your pleasure as it overwhelms you.

The prosthetic stops moving as your climax finishes, and you take two rasping, panting breaths before you can collect your thoughts enough to be alarmed by that. You look down, worried that you have shorted out the mechanisms, and then up at Dirk.

He holds up a small remote control device. "Everything's cool," he says. "Totally successful test ride."

You let your head fall forward on your arms again, listening to the way your blood hammers in your ears and your breath rasps in your throat. You feel so utterly wrung out, deliciously exhausted, and while you recognize in some abstract way that this is absurdly shameful, you feel so _content_ right now that you can't bring yourself to mind.

Dirk comes over to kneel beside you, stroking your hair back off your face, resting a warm hand on your shoulder. "How you doing, babe?" he says. "You ready to move, or you still need a minute?"

He treats you with such tenderness, such pity, when he has put you in your place. Your bloodpusher swells with gratitude. "I think...I would prefer to move," you say. The position the rocking device requires is not conducive to relaxation.

"Okay. I got you," he says, and he helps to hold you steady as you ease yourself slowly free of the prosthetic. You can't help a faint hiss as it slips free; you feel so empty, so stretched and raw. "Here, let me see," Dirk says, and you, of course, obey. Your cheeks burn as he examines you, his fingers gentle as he spreads your glutes and looks at what his machine has done to you. "Looks a little sore, but not too bad. Feel okay?"

You nod. "I...will certainly be feeling the soreness for some time," you admit. "But I'm not harmed." He shifts so you can more easily see his face, his raised eyebrow. "And I feel...good. I, ah, enjoyed that. Quite a bit."

His cool expression melts into a warm smile, and he pulls you into his arms. "Good," he says. "It was a hell of a show, you know." One hand comes up to slide through your hair and massage the base of your broken horn. You feel as though you could melt, right here. At your sigh of contentment, he presses his lips to your temple. "Next time we play with the horse, maybe I'll run the whole session with the remote."

"Yes," you say, even though that didn't sound like a question at all. You lean into him, this arrogant, depraved, perfect human. "Yes."


End file.
